


heavy words are hard to take, under pressure precious things can break

by safeandsound13



Series: we knew we'd get there someday [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, but also PSYCH, dead, dying, kill, literal murder lmaoooo, you'll have to read to understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-25 15:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18577690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: He inhales sharply, narrowing his eyes. "Why are you pointing a gun at me?" Again, he tries to come closer, and she knows this is Bellamy, he looks like Bellamy, talks like him, everything inside screams he can't be the bad guy, but she has to get to Madi, and she can't get to Madi if she's dead, so she repeats herself, slowly, hoarse, "Don't move."





	heavy words are hard to take, under pressure precious things can break

**Author's Note:**

> this one maybe requires a lil bit of that good old fashioned suspension of disbelief hashtag peace but i stan aos s4 so hard we dont deserve fitz and jemma so this is based on THAT scene in 4x15. was on my period and thought about how it would hurt a lot to see clarke m*rder the fuck out of bellamy and was like yaaaas bitch pain to distract me from my existential dread and crippling depression yaaaaas queen
> 
> do not take this too seriously for the first time in my life i didnt obsessively stress about the fact if this made sense in the context of canon. it's the existenial dread and crippling depression <3

"We have to stay here here," Murphy bites, wiping some greasy hair away from his face, staining his cheek with blood. Not his blood. "We have to contact Raven, ask her if she finished the —"

"No, we have to be careful," Clarke argues, still staring at his face, his vacant eyes, his unmoving chest, the gunshot wound in the middle of his forehead. "We can't just radio her and —"

He scoffs, an ugly sneer on his face as he interrupts her, slouched over against the wall in the back of the machine room, next to a pool of his own sick. "We just had to kill Jordan."

"That wasn't Jordan," Bellamy cuts in crouched over by his lifeless body, rising to his feet as he runs a hand through his hair absently. "He was trying to kill you."

"Which is  _worse_!" He replies, hurling an empty magazine somewhere towards the door angrily. It clackers to the floor noisily, involuntarily making Clarke wince, still on edge from their earlier encounter. "We don't even know who's real and who's a fucking —  _robot_!"

The blonde presses a hand to her forehead, shaking her head lightly as she goes over their options. "They can't know that we know."

"God knows what Russell programmed them to do," Murphy continues, ignoring her. "Torture us, kill us —"

Clarke licks her lips, trying to get some of the dryness in her mouth to disperse by swallowing thickly. "If they wanted to, they would've already."

Jordan — he was at their side the entire day. She was alone with him. If he wanted to kill her, she would be dead. He didn't. Her gut tells her it has something to with that machine. That fucking machine.

Murphy huffs humouredly, a vile smirk on his face as he lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Of course  _you_  have a better idea. So what are you saying, Wanheda?"

She's over this. She's so fucking over this. His attitude, the way they look at her, speak to her. She never said she was the good guy, but they're no angels either. They don't have time for this.

"I'm not saying anything, Murphy," she snaps, yanking her jacket off one of the pipes on the wall and shrugging it on. "You do whatever the hell you want. You wanna stay? Stay. But I saw what they were doing to Madi — the things they were making her see, making her feel, attached to that, that —  _machine_. I'm going back to get her."

He salutes her, mockingly. "Help yourself out."

She doesn't say anything, gritting her teeth together as she strides over to the exit. A voice stops her, making her turn towards the source.

"Wait — Clarke," Bellamy says, over by their bags, putting the cap back on one of their canteens. His face is unreadable. "It's not a good idea."

"You saw her, you both did," she starts, erratic, her eyes starting to sting, her voice starting to shake at the thought — the thought. "You saw her! You saw the way she was screaming. She's in pain and she wanted me, she wanted me, she called for me, I have to go save her. I have to —"

"Okay, okay," he agrees, holding up his hands as he closes the distance between them slowly. "Take a breath." He puts a hand on top of her shoulder, and she tries to follow his advice, inhaling sharply. "I just meant you can't go on your own."

A moment passes, searching his face, and then she nods. Any other day, she wouldn't have been this selfish. She wouldn't have asked him to come to other side of the ship with her, risking his own life, not when she wasn't even sure they could save Madi, that he cared that much about hers still. But she needs — she needs this. And he looks sure enough of himself.

"It's okay," he repeats, again, softly, squeezing her arm before dropping his hand completely. "The one advantage we have over them is they don't know that we're on to them." He pauses for just a second, a contemplative glance exchanged between the two of them, then reminds her, "We have to act normal, okay?"

"Yeah," Clarke gulps, shakily, wiping at her tears with the back of her hands roughly. She'll do whatever. She just wants to leave.

"This has to be a fucking joke," Murphy mutters, loud enough for them to hear, arms crossed over his chest.

Bellamy turns to him, raising an eyebrow, unbothered by his whole contrary demeanor. Used to it. "Are you going to be okay?"

"You can't be serious," he argues right back, looking incredulous. He's actually worried. It surprises Clarke. She knows they're close, after six years together, but it's something she's buried in the back of her mind, like the shower water turning cold all of a sudden. " _Anyone_  could be them. Do you wanna die?"

Bellamy's eyes flick over to her, just a second, barely long enough to notice if she wasn't already looking at him. He ignores Murphy's plea, voice authoritative, "There's a lock on the inside of the door. Make sure to use it. Once we're back, we'll knock two times, short, three times, long. Don't open it for anyone else. Not even if they beg."

"Fucking figures," he mumbles, shaking his head as he rolls it back against the wall, petulant, knowing the conversation is over.

"One of the tablets?" Bellamy asks, expectantly, looking at the two discarded tablets by his feet. When ten seconds pass in which the other guy ignores him completely, he curses under his breath, going over there to get it himself.

He almost slams the door shut behind him, if it hadn't been for Clarke catching it at the last second. She musters together a weak smile. "Normal, remember?"

"Doesn't get more normal than this," he mutters under his breath, gaze fixed straight ahead, reminding her they haven't had a real conversation in — she doesn't even remember. The two of them, together, they never used to be out of the ordinary. After all their time apart, maybe now they are.

"Right," she states, jaw clenching for a moment. He wanted to come, out of some false sense of responsibility, or because he thinks he owes her, doesn't mean he wanted to be friendly. She doesn't care about that right now. "Let's just not attract any more attention to ourselves than necessary."

They make their way through the ship carefully. Their ship, that might or might not be taken over by the Sanctumians. There's no way to tell because they'd look like them. It took them a whole  _day_  to figure out Jordan wasn't Jordan. For some reason they seem to share the same memories, the same thoughts and feelings. They're them, but not them.

The tablet under his arm keeps beeping, and he keeps ignoring it because he's too far gone in thought, so Clarke grabs it from him and checks why. He makes a noise in protest. An unfamiliar app notification pops up as soon as she unlocks it. "Did Raven finish installing the detection devices?"

She'd been working on it since they found out there were people who weren't  _people_  a few days ago, trying to link the security cameras to an automatic scanner for LMDs — Life-Model Decoys, coined by Shaw. Only back then, days ago, they'd just looked like any other person from Sanctum. A problem, but nothing compared to the shit they were in now. They couldn't trust  _anyone_.

"It looks like—" Clarke continues, but breaks herself off. Staring back at them from the screen is an image of the two of them, the border around a ring of red. In big, white block letters it reads ' _LMD detected_ '. Her heart starts to pound loudly in her ears, her mouth drying up. No.

Bellamy takes the tablet from her, studying the image himself. Rationally, calmly, he argues, "I think she did, but she must've made a calibration error or hit —"

"Whoa," he exclaims, alarmed, as she lifts his gun from his thigh holster swiftly, aiming it him as she takes a step back. Her voice doesn't waver. "Stay right there."

He lets out a small puff of air, like half a laugh, nervous, his eyes darting from the gun to her face and back, like it's an old joke between friends. "What ever happened to acting normal?"

They hear footsteps from around the corner, and she grits her teeth together, thinking of how she's gonna play this off, if she can even trust the person about to round the corner, if it'll work out in her favor. Knowing her luck, probably not. He talks again, tone more serious, deeper, like he'd expected her to put the gun down by now, like she made a mistake and was bound to realize it sooner rather than later, like he was actually confused why she could possibly be doing this, to him. "Clarke, what the hell are you doing?"

This can't be happening. The footsteps come closer and closer, and she can't, she can't breathe, can't fucking think, so she nudges the firearm at a nearby room, clenching her jaw. "Go in there."

His brow furrows together, sounding aggravated now. "What? Clarke —"

She takes the safety of the gun, gritting her teeth as she hisses, "I said go in there."

He scoffs, holding up his hands as he kicks open the door with his foot, pushing it open further with his elbow. She follows him inside, glancing over her shoulder quickly to see if anyone is close enough to see them. Satisfied that the answer is no, she lets the door fall shut behind her. He stops, turning towards her, hands still suspended in the air.

"Back away," she flashes, she can't think when he's standing so close. She can barely keep her thoughts straight as it is. Her eyes dart from him to anywhere but him, trying to jumble together enough focus to make sense of this. "We have to — we can figure this out."

"Figure what out?" He barks, his eyes dark, but at least he listens, doesn't come closer. There's a crease between his brow, his nostrils flared slightly, his shoulders stiff. He's mad. "You're pointing a gun at me!"

"I am," she concludes, her other hand coming up to steady the firearm, shaking too heavily, but he takes this as a surrender, dropping his stance as he makes a move to come closer. She shakes her head, she hates this, but she can't trust him, she can't. Not right now. She warns, wetting her lips, "No — don't move."

He inhales sharply, narrowing his eyes. "Why are you pointing a gun at me?" Again, he tries to come closer, and she knows this is Bellamy, he looks like Bellamy, talks like him, everything inside screams he can't be the bad guy, but she has to get to Madi, and she can't get to Madi if she's dead, so she repeats herself, slowly, hoarse, "Don't move."

Realisation dawns on his face, his eyebrows lifting, tilting his head slightly in disappointment, dread. He breathes, rough, "It's you."

"Shut up," she cuts in, gaze fixated on his, feeling her eyes start to tear up, shaking her head lightly. She doesn't know what's real and what's not. But it's not her — she's not an android. She'd know. She'd fucking know. She'd know, right? She's practically begging, repeating herself, weakly, pushing out a stutter of air, " _Shut_  up."

"No," he bites back, eyes dashing around wildly, like he's putting two and two together. " _No_. You wanted us to go in here alone. You didn't want anyone to see you  _killing_  me —"

She lets out a sob of protest. She's losing her mind. It isn't true. What he's saying. It isn't true. She's not crazy. She's not. "You said we had to act normal." A tear rolls down her cheek slowly. "You saw — you knew the detection device kept going off and you didn't say anything."

Bellamy shakes his head, his own eyes brimming with wetness, sniffing lightly. He's still not making eye-contact, like he's off into his own world. "Russell he, he invited you to his home. You went to his home by yourself — it makes sense."

"Shut up!" She yells, pressing one hand to her forehead. It's covered in a thin layer of sweat. She can't — she can't fucking breathe. The firearm starts to shake in her grip again. No. This is not going to happen. She's not falling for it. Angrily, she presses, " _I'm_  the one that's pointing the gun. I damn well known I'm not an android."

"You would say that if you were!" He cuts in, appalled, then scrubs a hand over his face, prompt. A look of horror written across it. "You'd be programmed to."

Clarke swallows thickly, watches him, searches him, tries to find anything that's out of order. Anything. He lets out a short, humourless breath, one hand on his hip, the other moving up to pinch the bridge of his nose, voice softer this time, like he's already given up. "You don't know. You don't even know. Like Jordan."

"Stop it! The same goes for you," she urges, desperate, a memory flashing in front of her eyes. Jordan. How he attacked Clarke when she refused to come with him, scratched up her arm with a knife, Bellamy wrestling it from him. Confronting him with the fact he wasn't Jordan, not their Jordan —  _look at the wiring in your arm, if you were real, you would bleed_. The look on his face, hard to explain, something she'd never seen before — something close to absolutely  _petrified_. She tried to pick up the gun from the floor, but her grip was slippery from the blood dripping down her arm, Jordan was on top of her again, Murphy shooting him, straight in the head. She shakes her head, wildly, trying to get rid of the haunted images in her head. "I'm not an LMD! You're messing with me, messing with my head."

His head snaps back up to look at her, eyebrows creased together, a tear falling from his eye as he yells, absolutely wrecked, "It's not me, Clarke!"

"It's one of us!" She cries, frantic, tasting bile in the back of her throat. It's silent for a moment, between the two of them, the realisation of her statement settling in. Neither of them would know. Defeated, she rasps, "It's fucking one of us Bellamy."

"I know," he breathes, mouth barely moving so quietly he says it, still holding her gaze. He looks so genuine, so beaten; his eyes glazed over with tears, his hands trembling slightly, his shoulders squared like he's holding his breath. He looks like Bellamy. Her Bellamy. This is impossible. This always happens to them. Impossible situations at the worst imaginable times.

"Whoever it is — it's my fault," she stammers, swallowing thickly, letting the tears roll down her cheeks freely now. She's so close, so close to giving in. She doesn't want it to be him. She can't have it be him. She trusts him with her life, even now, even after all the distance and time and mistakes between them. She inhales shakily, her voice breaking, "I'm the bad guy, okay? No matter what." He steps closer, and she won't lower the gun, but she's also not sure she'll shoot. Mindlessly, she whimpers, closing her eyes in preparation, "Don't hurt me."

"I couldn't. I'm not gonna fight you, Clarke," he says, hands up in the air as he swallows heavily. "Even if you are a decoy." His tongue darts out to wet his lips, moving closer. "I'll do whatever you say. Okay? I'll do whatever you say."

 _He'd do anything. To keep her safe_. Once upon a time, that was true for them as well. She thinks it still would be now. He sacrificed 283 lives for hers. She left him to die. He forgave her. It has to be. Then why is he moving closer? Why does he want to take the gun from her so badly? If he knows they could both be the LMD, why is he trying so hard? Why can't he just wait this out with her?

His words activitate a survival instinct inside of her she didn't know she had left, as she backs up, door handle digging into her lower back. She motions the firearm at the work bench beside him, the utility knife on top of it. "Pick it up." There's still another way. To know for sure. Another choice she can make.

He chuckles, a quiet, surprised noise as he freezes on the spot. "And do what exactly, princess?"

"Cut your wrist," she explains, matter-of-factly, sniffing as her teeth grasp onto her upper lip for just a second, the taste salty. "If you're one of them — you won't bleed. I'll see your substructure and I'll know."

His jaw ticks. "And if not, you're the android and you've just convinced me to slit my wrist."

She can't back down now, racking the slide of the gun. "Do it." She know she sounds delirious — absolutely fucking crazy. Maybe she is. Maybe he'll bleed and she just made him hurt himself and she'll be the decoy. Maybe Raven's detection device did have a calibration error. Maybe.

"Okay," he exhales, picking up the utility knife slowly. He checks her face one more time, but she doesn't budge. He puts the blade to his skin, and presses it down, hard. He laughs, unhinged, as redness starts to gush down his wrist and fingers, dripping into the floor. "That's a lot of blood."

"Oh God," she exclaims, heart restarting in her chest, pretty sure he hit his radial artery from the look of it. Idiot. She lowers the gun, already rushing over to his side, his face contorted in pain. She reaches out for his wrist, trying to get a look at it. "Bellamy — I'm sor —"

She yelps out in pain as he swiftly jams the utility knife into her thigh, twisting it, the gun clattering to the floor in surprise at the sudden attack. She stumbles, her knees giving out as she falls to the floor. She hisses out in agony. Blood gushes from her leg. It's not her. It's not her either. Then why did he just stab her? She looks up, vision getting blurry. She can barely make him out as he crouches down beside her, grinning as he tucks some hair behind her hair, staining her light skin with the redness tinting his hand. It's sticky. Clarke tries to say his name, but no sound comes out. Then it goes black.

She can't be out long, she can't be. When she opens her eyes, she has to blink a few times to regain any semblance of vision. Then she makes out Bellamy, in front of some sort of laptop, typing furiously, and when she tries to move her hands, she realizes those are tied to the chair she's in.

Somehow, she manages to wring herself loose, pulling her hands free. She tries to get up from the chair, but she's lost so much blood, she can barely stand. Instead she takes it with her, crashing to the ground. She winces as something pulls on her head, and she realizes it's the same machine they used on Madi. What is he doing to her?

Clarke pulls on the wires attached to her skull, yanking them lose, pulls the syringe from the machine as well. Crawling on all fours, she tries to get away. Anywhere. To the door. A weapon. A way of contacting somebody. Murphy. Raven. Her leg throbs, and she knows not to, but she still whimpers out loud.

"Don't fight, Clarke. You're too weak," his voice rings out from behind her, calmly, nonchalantly. She keeps dragging her body forward, trying not to listen to him. She knows it's futile. She has nowhere to go. But she can't let him win either. He sounds closer now. "We haven't finished. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

She cries out in pain, her body collapsing to the ground again. Her entire body is slick from sweat, her hair plastered damply to her skin. She rolls onto her back, so she can at least look him in the face as she dies. Clarke grits her teeth together, trying to keep the pain at bay, as she snaps, "Why not?"

Her voice comes out too weak to actually make her point, but still. He's going to kill her, torture her, do whatever to her anyway. What does he care?

He grins, soft, and it fucking hurts. He looks so much like him. She can't handle this. "Because I love you." It widens as he crouches down beside her. He touches her hand, and she flinches away. "I'm in love with you."

Her forehead crinkles, her chest heaving up and down heavily, blood rushing in her ears loudly. Her mouth feels dry. "Why would you say that?"

"Because it's true," he explains, and he's supposed to be Bellamy, so why is he lying? Is this some cruel joke? He's supposed to share his memories, his feelings, his thoughts. "I mean — I've thought about it, but I was afraid to bring it up. Every time I tried, you cut me off."  _Clarke, if I don't see you again_. He smiles, tentative, self-deprecatingly, and she fucking wants to throw up. "I wasn't sure the feelings were mutual."

Her cheeks are wet again, confusion settled over her face. He reaches out, palming the side of her face. She can't help but lean into his touch. Quietly, he whispers, "Are they?"

She swallows, thick. Time seems to stand still. "Are they what?"

"Do you love me?"

Does she love Bellamy? Yeah.  _Yeah_. That's never been in question. He's her best friend. He was her best friend. But even if — that kind of love never fades. Is she in love with him? She imagined it a lot, over the past six (plus 125) years. What it would be like. If he'd stayed, or she'd gone up with him. If he came down without a girlfriend, if she never met Madi. If she didn't leave him behind in that pit, if she told him about the radio calls sooner. Most days, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him, if he'd take the lead or let her take control, if he was good at it. He had to be. Soft, or rough. What he tasted like. On the lonely days, she'd imagine him on top of her, his talented hands, his equally special mouth. And on her  _most_ pathetic days — what it would be like to hold his hand, go to sleep with him at night, wake up beside him in the morning.

"Of course I love him," she breathes, blinking through the tears. Then she reaches for the syringe beside her, stabbing him in the chest, knocking him back onto the floor. "I'll tell Bellamy when I see him."

Clarke bites through the pain, knocking over the workbench quickly so his legs are trapped underneath it. The tablet crashes down on the floor beside it, the screen cracking like a spiderweb. Then she stumbles over to his side, reaching for the utility knife next to the laptop blindly. Her fingers wrap around it just as he's trying to move the bench off him.

She wastes no time to stab him in the chest again, even as he begs, "No, no, Clarke, please — please stop." He gurgles, blood dribbling down the side of his mouth. It's not possible. It seems so real. She knows he isn't. "Clarke, Clarke, l-look at me — look at me please. Stop. It's me," he pleads, trying to reach for her, and she's sobbing, crying, tears dripping onto his face. His voice catches in the back of his throat, his breathing getting shallow, "It hurts, Clarke. It's me."

 _It's me_. It's him. It's Bellamy. He's the guy who pulled the lever with her, who came to find her, who kept her alive. He's smart, and brave, a pain in her ass, and he always knows how to make her laugh, even when it's the last thing she wants to do. He has a sister, and friends, his people, and makes the most reckless and stupid decisions trying to protect them, or just because it  _feels_ right. What is she doing?

Something dark settles over his face, and he grabs her by the hair, yanking her closer. One hand wraps around her throat, squeezing tightly. She wheezes, struggling for air, but she won't give up. Instead, she moves on to his neck, giving one last hard blow. Electricity cackles, and she twists, and twists, until something empty settles over his eyes, his hand dropping back to the floor.

She falls back into her hands with a sob, lifting up the knife to look at her bloody hand. It clatters to the floor loudly, her whole body shaking as she cries.  _He wasn't real. He wasn't real._ She tries to rub the blood off on her shirt, but it won't come off, it won't.  _He wasn't real. It wasn't him._ She lifts her cleanest hand, pressing the trembling fingers to her mouth as she stares at his lifeless body, a red flower blooming on the middle of his chest, his eyes staring straight through her.  _She killed him. This time you die_.

Clarke shakes her head, trying to clear the fog from her brain. She forces herself to stop crying, wiping at her cheeks roughly with her sleeve. She has to go. Before they find her.

Stumbling onto her feet, she rips a piece of fabric from her shirt, wrapping it around her leg. Clarke finds the gun, hides it in the band of her jeans. She makes her way back to the hallway, dragging her leg along manually. She figures Madi won't be where she was — since the machine was here — and her safest bet is to go back to Murphy, the only one with the another detection device.

She runs into Miller on the way there and has to shoot him. He's an LMD. No one is safe. Two short, three long. The door opens. It's dark inside, darker than before. He must've killed the lights. Jordan's — Not Jordan — face and torso are covered with a jacket. "What the fuck? What did I just see? What happened to Bellamy?"

Clarke's eyes fall on the tablet grasped in his hand tightly. He must've watched along on the security camera. "It wasn't him," she insists, closing the door behind her and falling back against it. "It wasn't him."

"I tried to contact Raven. She wasn't home. Surprise. I check up on you two, and there — there he is. Unconscious on the floor in a pool of his own blood." Murphy just stares at her, skeptical. "Did you kill him?"

She bites her tongue so hard, she tastes metal. "Not him," she corrects him, because she needs this to be clear, needs to remind herself. Her stomach churns. "It wasn't him."

"Are you one of them? Are you a robot?" He snaps, pressing his forearm against her windpipe harsly. She chokes on a breath. Hysterically, he rants, wild eyes searching hers, "Because Emori is in on it. I saw it on the security cameras. I just watched Raven bash Echo's head in, and Octavia —"

She can't say more than few words, can't process more than a few either, can't listen to him rambling. She feels lightheaded, dizzy. Clarke puts up a hand, cutting him off, croaking out, "They were all replaced."

He freezes, releasing some of the pressure of her throat. More composed, he inquires, "You, too?"

"It's not you," she stammers, eyes starting to sting again as her fingers come up to wrap around his arm weakly. She doesn't even try to pull it off. Not him too. "It's not you."

"Griffin, it's me," he bites, harshly, then puts more force behind his arm, snarling. "What about you? Prove to me you're not a fucking robot, because it looks like you're malfunctioning."

"No way to prove it," she says, lifting her shoulders indifferently, weakly, as she leans her head back against the door. Tears leak down the corners of her eyes. Bellamy. He bled. Jordan didn't. They've probably advanced their technology. "You don't know until they kill you. There's no way to know until they kill you."

He pulls her off the door, slams her back into it, making her wince as a sharp pain spreads from the back of her skull to her fingertips. He pushes, angrily, " _How_  did you know?"

She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to focus on not passing out. "Know what?"

"That it wasn't Bellamy. Keep up."

"He — he stabbed me," she mutters, squeezing her eyes closed harder, trying to replay the memory of before, before she took the knife and — "He said — he said he loved me. That he was in love with me."

"Are you fucking kidding me.  _Seriously_?" He flares, cursing under his breath. "That did it for you?"

Her eyes spring open as he draws his arm back from her throat, fingers reaching up to rub over the sensitive skin softly. "What?"

He takes a step back, and another, turning away from her, jamming his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets tiredly. "No way that that a LMD would be  _this_  incredibly stupid. You have me convinced."

She doesn't have the energy to get into it right now. They still have to find Madi. They have to get to safety. She closes some of the distance between them. "How do I know it's you?" If it's not him, she still has to get that tablet somehow.

Door slams open, knocking into the wall noisily before it falls shut again. It's Bellamy. Alive.

"N-no," she whimpers, stumbling backwards. "I killed you."

Bellamy puts up a hand, a puzzled look on his face. Maybe hurt, too. Pained. His shirt looks clean, the skin on his neck untouched. There's no way to tell. "Clarke —"

"No," she exclaims, firmly, shaking her head wildly. She keeps backtracking until she hits the wall. "I can't do it again. I won't do it again."

"It's me. I'm real," he counters, softly, tentatively, trying not to startle her as he strides closer. Yet eager. He seems to have figured out she's come face to face with some LMDs. "Every security camera — the device — Raven finished it. Here. I can show you."

He holds out the tablet, but Clarke presses her spine against the wall harder, like it'll magically make her disappear.  _She can't do it again._  "Stay — stay away."

"I'm not going to hurt you," he promises, and it's almost hilarious how it's the same fucking thing he said before. He thought she wouldn't notice? "Here. Take it," Bellamy pushes, thrusts the tablet at her, making sure to keep his body away as far as possible.

She takes it, hastily, hands shaking. She unlocks the tablet, swiping from right to left. There's a ring of green around a grainy picture of her, of Murphy. Entering this storage room. Of Bellamy too.

Her head snaps up.  _Of Bellamy too_. The corners of his mouth turn up, hesitantly. She gasps, flying into his arms. The tablet clashes to the floor. She wraps hers around his neck, one of his folding around her waist. He buries his free hand in her hair, smoothing it over carefully.

He's not dead. The real him. He's not dead.

He laughs, breathily, into her hair. "What the hell did I miss"

Murphy snorts, contemptuous. "It's a long story."

**Author's Note:**

> [hmu](http://www.safeands0und13.tumblr.com) or [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell, prompt me, or debate who'd top, bellamy or clarke? i'm saving the world out here, one problem at a time (its bellamy) (he would top) (debate is closed at this time)


End file.
